


In Name Only

by Iben



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Female Thranduil, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 03:27:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17758898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iben/pseuds/Iben
Summary: Consummating the marriage is, unfortunately, necessary. Thranduil wants to get it done as quickly as possible and without any unnecessary interactions, but she has not taken into account that her own body might betray her.





	In Name Only

“I don't want you to touch me,” Thranduil says. 

Thorin looks at her as if he thinks she is an idiot.

“Then how do you suggest we do this?”

She is not an idiot, which he should perfectly well know, so he must be deliberately trying to be obtuse. 

She lifts the crown from her head and places it on the dresser. It is a silver tiara, sparkling with countless white gems. A gift from her new husband and she wore it, as expected, at the wedding. She is loath to admit how much she likes it and doesn't let her gaze linger on it once she has put it aside.

Her first instinct is to not reply to his comment at all, she doesn't want him to succeed, but then she has second thoughts. It is best if she makes herself perfectly clear. 

“I don't want you to lie on me,” she says, “and I want you to keep your hands to yourself.”

His face clouds over. And here she was, thinking he couldn't look grumpier if he tried. Well, everyone can be wrong sometimes. 

“Trust me, I don't find this any more appealing than you do,” he says and he emphasizes his words by looking at her with something akin to disgust. 

Her shoulders tenses and she tells herself his remark doesn't hurt. She is the Queen of the Woodland Realm. She is beautiful. Elves and Men alike, from here to the far West, would give all their worldly goods to lie with her. This hairy mountain-dweller is beneath her and his opinion of her matters not. 

“Trust you?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I think not.”

It is for the good of the Realm, she reminds herself. 

“Can you lie on your back?” she says and does her best to sound as her usual, regal self. 

“Fine.” His reply is curt and it sounds like a growl. 

She starts to undress, beginning with the buttons on her silvery coat. One layer, she thinks as she drapes it over the high back of a chair. Two more to go. He is removing his clothes too, she can see him out of the corner of her eye, but she pretends she can't. 

She has only ever been intimate with one man before. She was younger then and deeply in love. That is the way of the Elves. Not like this, not as a completion of a contractual agreement. 

“Will you excuse me just a moment?” she says and she doesn't wait for his reply. 

Wearing only her slip now, white and of such fine silk it is all but see-through, she flees the room. Although, she makes sure not to walk too quickly. She doesn't want to give away what is now simmering much too close to the surface. 

Down the hall is a bathroom, two servants are filling the tub in there, and she orders them out with one, sharp word. She needs to be alone. Just for a minute. 

This is precisely how she had sworn to herself she wouldn't act. She was going to remain in control, aloof, unaffected, as befitting a queen. 

The truth, which she is forced to admit standing there, alone in the bathroom, is that she is afraid. She is afraid it is going to hurt; she is not in the right mood, the circumstances are all wrong, as is the partner; she is as dry as autumn down there. 

Physical pain does not normally scare her. She has seen battle, she has suffered injuries. But she cannot bear the thought of being hurt there. It seems the most heinous of violations. 

The room smells of summer flowers. The scent wafts up from the steam rising languidly from the half-filled tub. This is for her, she realizes. So that she can wash, after. 

She hitches up her slip and puts her hand between her legs. Closing her eyes she thinks of other times, other places. It is not as enjoyable as when she does it merely for her own pleasure. Her thoughts keep slipping away from her, breaking her concentration, but she manages to get herself wet. Wet enough so it won't be painful, she hopes. 

She dips her fingers into the scolding hot water to rinse them, before she hurries back to the bedroom. 

Thorin is sitting on the edge of the bed. He has stripped down to his shirt, but it reaches almost all the way down to his knees, so all she can see is a pair of sturdy legs, liberally dusted with dark hair. 

He looks at her. “Are you all right?”

She cocks her head slightly to the side. A tic she has. “Yes.”

She doesn't elaborate. His tone of voice had been different. Kinder, in lack of a better word, but she knows less what to do with that than she does with hostility. 

He can see most of her body though the flimsy material of her slip, she knows. She has seen Dwarven women and knows she looks nothing like them. The basic parts are the same, of course, but will it be enough?

To shift the focus from herself, and partly as retaliation for what he said earlier, she glances at his crotch. 

“Will you be able to perform?” she says. 

Even as she says it she half-wishes she could take it back. The slightly pensive expression he had on his face, just now, vanishes. 

“You keep up your end of the bargain, I'll keep up mine,” he says. 

Was that a joke? She half-smiles, with the objective of giving nothing away. Then the corners of his mouth, partly obscured as they are by his beard, turn slightly upwards too. She can't say if his smile is sardonic or not. 

He rises from his seat. She is a head taller than he is, but his shoulders are wide and he is broad across the chest. 

“Can you take that off?” he says with a nod at her slip.

She had considered keeping it on; they could still get the business done. But since he asked she assumes he wants her naked, and this is after all an agreement that has required both parts to make concessions. 

“Yes,” she says and starts to untie the strings that hold it together at the front. 

He pulls his shirt over his head. Her eyes widen before she can help herself. He truly is hairy. Dark, almost black, hair grows all over his chest, across his stomach, and in a thick bush around his penis.

She looks away, focuses on untying the ribbons down the front of her last piece of garment. Half-mast, she thinks. She can't remember where on earth she has heard the phrase. Even though she is looking down at herself, she sees him give himself a couple of tugs before he crawls onto the bed. 

There are no more strings to untie and the slip falls silently to the floor when she pushes it off her shoulders. She follows him onto the bed. 

He is lying on his back, as she asked him to, and his gaze follows her. She is naked and feels acutely aware of it. Her body, which is so familiar to her, loved even, feels not entirely as her own. She swings one long leg over him. The skin of his hips is warm against the insides of her thighs. The hair on his legs tickles, softer than she thought it would be. She is hairless, everywhere except for her head, her eyebrows and eyelashes. Her skin looks very pale against his. 

His penis is fully erect now, pointing up at his stomach. Perhaps it is something inherent in all males, at least of most races, that no matter the circumstances, or who with, at the prospect of being inside a female body, blood simply rushes southward. 

He keeps his promise and keeps his hands to himself, so it is up to her to get this done. She takes his penis in her hand, it is hard and blood-hot against her fingers. The skin is smooth like velvet, though. She's not sure why that surprises her. She holds him in place and positions herself above him, then she pushes down. 

He doesn't slide in. The head feels much too big. He's too thick, she thinks, or maybe she isn't wet enough. 

“Don't rush,” he says. 

She hasn't been looking at him, but now she glances at his face. His long dark hair, with its gray streaks, is in stark contrast to the white pillow below his head. She hates how he can look so composed, even when he is lying naked under her and she is holding his erection in her hand. 

“Don't hurt yourself,” he says. “Just... do whatever you need to do.”

She doesn't want to do this at all. It's been so long. She never intended to remarry, not until this alliance made it necessary. She doesn't love him. It's a marriage in name only, a signed piece of paper. She had no intention of taking any pleasure from this. To expose herself, any more than is necessary, was not part of her plan.

But she doesn't want the act to be painful. And neither does he, it seems. She can only assume that he is as considerate towards her as he would be towards a female of his own race, but she can't help but to feel as if she has lost somehow. Why couldn't his manhood have withered instead? It would have been infinitely preferable. 

Even if it was ages ago, she has done this before, and she draws on those experiences now. Not the memories themselves, she does not want to think about those now, but she knows what to do. Even if he is vastly different, Thorin is still a man and she knows how to be with one. 

Rocking her hips in small movements she rubs herself against the head of his penis. She remembers that used to feel good. Then a thought enters her mind. If he were to finish now, before he is even inside her, they would have to start over again from the beginning. 

She abandons his erection and takes his hand instead. There is a look of mild surprise on his face when she meets his gaze. 

She uses his fingers to masturbate, while sitting on him. She could of course just do it herself, but then it would feel as if she was doing it for his voyeuristic pleasure. 

His fingers are thick and his skin is rougher than her own. She keeps her eyes closed and focuses on the threads of pleasure that she wants to catch and wind up tighter. The sensation is enhanced somehow, when it isn't her own touch, even though it technically is, only she is using him to do it. 

He lets her do as she pleases. He doesn't touch, not really, until she guides his hand further in between her legs. He slides a finger inside her then of his own accord, and she opens her eyes at the unexpected movement. 

He is watching her, has watched her the whole time she suspects, and his eyes are dark. There is enough heat pooling between her legs now for her to let him go on touching her, in the pursuit of more. He is a King, she thinks as he slips another finger inside and the stretch is pleasureable, enough to make her let out a small gasp. A Dwarven king, but a king all the same. 

And he is not an idiot. He has taken notice of what she did and now he uses his free hand to rub her sensitive spot in the exact same way, while moving the fingers of his other hand inside her. The pleasure feels warm between her legs and she is wet now. Open.

She pushes his hands out of the way and wraps her fingers around his penis once more. It is still hard. When she lowers herself onto it now, it slides in. It fills her up, expands her. She hears his raspy exhale and inwardly she smiles. She can feel the wiry hair around the base of it against her sensitive flesh. It feels odd. She can't say she likes it. 

The pace she sets is steady, fast enough that she expects he will finish soon, but not so fast it seems hurried. He lifts his hand, she thinks to touch her spot again, and she brushes it aside. Her own hands she keeps on the top of her thighs. Then his hands are there too. She pushes at his wrists for him to move them. He does, but only briefly, then he grabs her hips instead. 

She glances down. She can see corded muscles underneath the skin of his arms. How strong is he? His grip right now is firm, but not rough. He's not even guiding her movements, just holding her. 

“I told you not to touch me,” she says. 

He meets her gaze. “Really?” 

Very well, let him hold her hips then.

He doesn't sound as out of breath as she had thought he would. She has no idea what the stamina of Dwarves is like. She knows nothing about their sexual practices and lovemaking at all. She only knows that in battle they are fierce and strong, and has admirable endurance. Perhaps that extends to other activities as well. Able to resist fire better than both Elves and Men too, she remembers. Maybe that translates as more thick-skinned? 

So, how long will they be at this?

Of course, she knows she must appear very strange to him, with her long arms and legs, smooth skin and lithe build. Not appealing. His words. When he slides a hand up to her breast, she lets him. He holds it, squeezes it. 

It's not uncomfortable, having him inside, on the contrary it feels pleasurable. But that doesn't mean she doesn't want him to finish, so that they can be done with this, and she can go home. She glances down at him. His breathing has sped up a little, but not enough. She tries sliding her hands across his chest. The hair feels weird against her palms, but she likes the feeling of strong muscles underneath. 

“Does this not feel good for you?” she finally asks. 

“It does.” 

“Will you finish, like this?”

He tightens his grip on her hips then and makes her stop moving. His expression is guarded, she thinks, but then most likely so is hers. 

“You wish to hurry things along?” he says after a second. 

There is hardly any point in denying it. “Yes.”

“And what about you, finishing?”

That is not going to happen. She feels too awkward being intimate with him to be able to let herself go in the manner necessary for that to occur. 

The fact is she doesn't really know him, aside from as the ruler of the neighboring kingdom. A kingdom she needed to join her own to, given the state of the world and the ever-growing threats. A lot of bad blood and old grievances had to be put aside for that to happen in the first place. As for the two of them, they both put the need of their people above their personal feelings.

All the same, he has shown her the courtesy of caring about her comfort and her pleasure. 

She shakes her head a little. “I can't,” she says. “I don't know you well enough.”

He looks at her for a few seconds. 

“I'll come faster if I'm on top,” he says then. 

Which she said she didn't want, but she finds she has changed her mind. She rises off him and moves to lie down on her back.

“Or the other way around,” he says. 

It takes her a second to grasp his meaning. That she's slow on the uptake can probably be excused by her current circumstances. 

That's how Dwarves like to do it? Like wild beasts. She shouldn't be so surprised. It is not the custom among Elves however, at least not as far as she knows, and she has never tried it. 

“Is that what you prefer?” she asks. 

“Either is fine.”

But he suggested it, which means it is probably his preference. She turns around and lies down on her front. She spreads her legs, feels him move behind her. He tugs a little at her hips, to make her raise them, then he pushes in. 

The new angle changes the sensation. The position makes it a very different experience altogether. She can neither touch him, nor see him. And she can't help but to feel somewhat deviant, coupling in this fashion.

She feels his hand in her hair then. She knew it! She knew he found her far too hairless. 

He keeps a faster pace and he thrusts harder than how she did things earlier. It might be for her benefit, though, since she asked him to finish. It's rougher, but he isn't too rough. He's holding her hair, but not pulling it. 

Lying like this she can't really move. She can only feel – the weight and heat of his body against her back, his movements inside her. Maybe that is why the pleasure slowly starts to build; there is nothing else to focus on but the sensation of being stretched around him. It is totally unexpected. Glowing threads of heat starts to run down the insides of her thighs, and they seem to wind themselves tighter and tighter at the small of her back, the pit of her belly, but most of all there, where his hardness fills her, again and again. 

She's breathing faster. Staring at nothing. She finds it hard to believe she is experiencing this. He's her husband in name only. There is no love between them. She doesn't even like him and only grudgingly accepts he has the same standing as she. 

She cannot do this. She cannot come apart underneath him. She is sure he has noticed her reaction; she is sure he is holding back his own climax just to see it. Even now she knows she will feel ashamed afterward, that she would allow herself to be reduced to this. 

But her body does not listen to her arguments. She clenches the bedsheets in her fists and moans as the waves of her exquisite undoing rolls through her. 

He pounds into her a couple more times, accidentally, or maybe not, pulling her hair in the process, and then he spills inside her. 

Neither of them move for a moment. He liked that, she thinks. He liked making her succumb. She conveniently chooses to forget that he let her ride him in whatever way she wanted to first. 

Sweat covers her skin, and his too. She moves then, to make him get off her. She gets up and picks up her slip from the floor and puts it on. The insides of her thighs are wet. He probably hopes she will give birth to some undersized, hairy baby nine months from now, she thinks as she pulls on the strings to make the garment close across her chest. Well, he can go on hoping. She chose the date for this wedding, seemingly for various practical reasons, but she had her cycle in mind too. She does not want this union to result in a child. 

Avoiding his gaze might make her look subservient, she realizes, so she looks up. He is still on the bed, leaning back against the pillows. Still naked, as if he has no shame. 

“Now that the marriage has been consummated, I expect we won't be seeing much of each other,” she says. 

“Why not?” 

She scoffs lightly. “Why would we?”

“You're my wife.”

She tenses. That is an epithet she does not feel comfortable with at all. Thorin Oakenshield's wife is not who she is.

“Don't be crude,” she says.

He gets up and pulls on his pants, at last. 

“I didn't know that calling you 'my wife' constituted crudeness,” he says, glaring at her.

“Do you expect me to be humble and obedient, husband?” she says, angling her upper body forward, so that they are face to face. 

“That'll be the day.” 

She straightens her back again. He looks intently at her.

“You're going to sit in your fortress and wait for me to die then?” he says. 

Well, something along those lines. 

They look at each other. She thinks about sensations she had all but forgotten, but which are now at the forefront of her mind.

“Perhaps,” she says.


End file.
